


Grapefruit

by procrastinationstationidc



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Female Derek Hale, Female Stiles Stilinski, Humor, Innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29861667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinationstationidc/pseuds/procrastinationstationidc
Summary: "ㅡSuper high in Vitamin C, have cholesterol lowering benefits, are linked to a reduced risk of vascular disease, and are surprisingly good when used to macerate avocados,” Stiles interrupts her. “Are you seriously lecturing your very own research professional on nutritional facts from the wikipedia entry?”Dee looks mildly amused at that, and Stiles would revel deliciously in the fact that they’re now at a point in their not-quite-friendship where Stiles obnoxiousness has Dee fonding ㅡyes, fondingㅡ all over her, but Scott’s werewolf  cure-all apparently doesn’t stretch to sudden, grapefruit induced coughing fits, so Stiles breaks eye contact with Dee to thunk Scott heartily on the back.Scott wheezes, flushed. “Mastor-what now?”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	Grapefruit

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I've never watched a single episode of Teen Wolf in my life, so you know where all my characterisations must come from. It's all your own fault, children.
> 
> I tried leaving fem!Derek's name as it was, but it just didn't sound right, so I changed it to "Dee", even though it still irks me enormously. But hey, I have a feeling "Dee" is also not entirely happy that Stiles concocted this specific nickname from whatever horrendously sounding name makes more sense in Sourwolf's skewered world.

They’re all sitting around the dining table in the Stilinski’s living room in various positions of studiousness, trying to figure out what the hell it means that this magic stuff went all over the place last night without really touching them, or rather, they’re trying to figure out what will happen when it finally, inevitably, does touch them. Or, well, Stiles is being studious at least, combing through the world wide web for any hint of the supernatural, and she’s been at it for so long that she wouldn’t even be surprised if her laptop started smoking any minute now, whether from magical overload or just plain old overheating.

“Ugh, I’m done with this shit,” she says, shoving the laptop across the table to pillow her exhausted head on something less combustible. A few of the scrolls and printouts go flying, and there may or may not be a little spark in the mix, so the non-combustible part is possibly not entirely foolproof after all. Whatever. Stiles drops her head onto the wood and groans.

Next to her, Dee snorts, as if she had any right at all to do so.

“You, Missy,” Stiles turns her head to blink at Dee, who’s still lounging in her kitchen chair as if it were a divan, immersed in the tiny, leatherbound book she’d snatched right from under Stiles’ nose when they sat down with their loot. “You do not get to snort at my pain. In fact, you should be running to alleviate it, seeing as I’m the one who always has to pull your wolfy littles asses out of trouble with the magic of my brilliant research.”

Dee doesn’t even have the courtesy to look up from her reading, calmly flipping to the next page. “I’m researching.”

Now it’s Stiles' turn to snort. “Yeah, right,” she says, turning her face back into the soothing darkness of the cold hard table. “Don’t even front. I know you’re only using the vaguely legibile chicken scratch in that thing as an excuse to have a supernaturally sanctioned night of poetry reading, while some of us are stuck doing the heavy lifting.” 

Stiles is only half joking. She’s pretty sure that Dee is actually taking good note of anything helpful that might be scribbled into the prolific margins of this practically ancient collection of sonnets. She wouldn’t sit back as others to the work to keep her pack safe, however much Stiles might tease. That’s just not how she works. And anyway, Dee can be wolfy and protective and still covertly enjoy the flowery prose of ancient sonnets, nothing wrong with that. Stiles is actually more than happy that Dee seems to finally be getting some leisure time, and she can tell that Dee, too, is enjoying this way more than she pretends to. Still, it means that Stiles is doing all the work. Again. She prods grumpily at her laptop, mildly insulted by its refusal to give up any secrets. Ah, well. That’s the burden of being the only human with a brain in a pack of research-averse canines.

Speaking of research-impaired dogs. Stiles frowns and looks around the living room, finding the couch empty but for an abandoned laptop, which, coincidentally, isn’t even displaying wikipedia or something vaguely pretending to be research, but is instead frozen on a bright youtube video that looks not very witchy at all. Figures.

“Where’s Scott?”

“Kitchen.” Dee is still focused on her little poetry, but turns her head to indicate that she’s listening in for Stiles. “Sounds like found that bag of doritos you were hiding from your Dad.”  
  
Stiles gasps. “Scott!”

Dee smirks, and Stiles can totally tell that she’s not reacting only to Stiles exclamation, but rather to Scott’s reaction to it in the kitchen. He better not have dropped dorito dust all over the tiles.

“What the hell, man,” Stiles calls loudly, even though Scott would totally be able to hear her inside voice from the kitchen. “Sharing is caring, come and feed your poor, hard working pack mates at least, if you’re not even scrolling through wikipedia for them.”

Scott’s peers through the kitchen door. “Uhm, I kinda finished it all,” he says sheepishly and Stiles groans again. “I was hungry! Wolf metabolism and stuff!”

“Great. So, now what? You sniffed out the one snack hidden in the entire house and didn’t even remember to feed me because the pup needed a treat?” Stiles shakes her head as if heavily disappointed, and Scott wilts. Dee snorts.

“Well, it’s not like you’re doing much helping, either,” Scott grumbles at Dee, who raises a single eyebrow, pointedly turning a crinkly old page, and mouth opening on what’s likely to be a scathing remark on Scott’s general inadequacies, up to and including his dorito stealing proclivities. Which, fair, but still.

“Hey,” Stiles intervenes before Dee can drily rip her shoddy best friend a new one. “Dee here is doing some very valuable lyrical analysis, and you’ll thank her for it next time you’re stuck in a spell and Dee’s recitation of her undying love for you in iambic pentameter saves your skinny little, dorito munching ass.”

Scott frowns. “I don’t…” he trails off, confused. “There’s still some fruit?” He slips back into the kitchen and returns hopefully with the basket that Stiles bought for her Dad to snack on what feels like weeks ago. Of course that’s all that’s left in the house, Stiles’ Dad wouldn’t touch those with a ten foot pole even though Stiles printed out a whole dossier of reasons explaining why _grapefruit is good for you, Dad_. No-one ever appreciates her awesome, life-saving research skills. Ungrateful heathens.

Scott’s watching her with puppy dog eyes, dorito gunk still all over his lips, and Stiles sighs. “Fine. Guess we’re having grapefruit. It needs to go anyway. You know, before it actually goes.”

Scott brightens and disappears back into the kitchen. Stiles watches Dee, and then kicks her leg under the table. “Dee-dee. Dinner time.”

“I wouldn’t call that dinner,” Dee observes drily as Scott hustles back in with a bunch of plates and halved grapefruits, deposits them with a flourish on the scattered papers and presents three spoons like an offering of myrre.

“Thanks, Scott.” Stiles closes her laptop, accepts a spoon and pulls a shiny grapefruit towards herself. “Karma,” she mumbles, sucks a drop of juice off her thumb and pulls a face at the bitter taste.

Again Dee smirks, but Stiles can’t help but notice that she hasn’t even touched her own piece of fruit. Instead, she mockingly adjusts her supernatural reading glasses which have no right to look as hot as they do, no right at all. “You know, grapefruits are actuallyㅡ”

“ㅡSuper high in Vitamin C, have cholesterol lowering benefits, are linked to a reduced risk of vascular disease, and are surprisingly good when used to macerate avocados,” Stiles interrupts her. “Are you seriously lecturing your very own research professional on nutritional facts from the wikipedia entry?” 

Dee looks mildly amused at that, and Stiles would revel deliciously in the fact that they’re now at a point in their not-quite-friendship where Stiles obnoxiousness has Dee fonding ㅡyes, _fonding_ ㅡ all over her, but Scott’s werewolf cure-all apparently doesn’t stretch to sudden, grapefruit induced coughing fits, so Stiles breaks eye contact with Dee to thunk Scott heartily on the back.

Scott wheezes, flushed. “Mastor-what now?” 

Stiles rolls her eyes and points a lecturing spoon at Scott’s chest. “Ma-sce-rate, dumbass. It’s when flavours combine or something. Anthony said so, and Anthony knows everything.” Queer Eye is her _jam_ , and Scott should know by now not to question Anthony’s genius in the kitchen, or really anywhere else he decides to park his perk little but. What, Stiles can have a crush on a gay guy on a netflix show. Sexuality is a spectrum.

Scott looks relieved as he swallows, crisis averted, so of course Stiles can’t help wanting to poke the nest a little more. That’s what you get when you polish off Stiles’ secret fast-food stash.

She hums, innocently handling her grapefruit in a not at all suggestive manner. “Not that there’s anything wrong with wanking a grapefruit, of course.”

This time it’s not only Scott who sputters and Stiles grins happily at Dee’s cough. 

“Eat up, eat up, children, grapefruit’s good for you.” She hums and licks her fingers. “Reeeeally good.”

“Dude,” Scott pelts her with a scroll. “Stop it. You’re worse than that youtube chick.”

“I will not have that sort of sexist commentary in my house, Scott McCall,” Stiles lobs the scroll back, belatedly remembering to hope that it’s not one of the spark-y ones. Dee rolls her eyes, and goes back to her poetry. Her loss.

“What chick, though?” Stiles asks Scott. “She sounds like a very wise woman, if she’s anything like the best friend you don’t deserve to have.”

Scott rolls his eyes back, but Stiles can see in his soft eyes that he totally knows he doesn’t deserve Stiles. Well, at least he’s aware. “You know, that girl on youtube with the grapefruit.” Scott helpfully gesticulates.

“Jeesh, Scott, a bit more vague if you please? Not like I’ve been wading through cryptic shit for you all night already, or anything.”

Scott’s long used to Stiles antics, of course, so Stiles knows that when he gets up to long sufferingly retrieve his laptop from the couch, he’s doing it because he loves her and despite contrary and entirely false evidence, he loves sharing, and is not at all trying to shut her up by pulling up a youtube video of a girl in the process of making a very grapefruit heavy fruit salad.

“A cooking video? Really, Scott?”

“It’s not about cooking, that’s just the intro,” Scott explains. “It’s funny, I swear. Just be patient for once, will you.”

“Impatient, me?” Stiles gapes at him, affronted. “I forbid any such slanderous insinuations.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott jostles his shoulder and settles in to watch the girl babble on as she, slowly, cuts open a grapefruit.

“Here,” Stiles says, and tilts the laptop so that Dee, who still hasn’t touched her grapefruit, can see the screen as well, “In case you need a fancy recipe before you can stomach my fruit.”

Dee looks up again, obviously ready to deliver Stiles yet another grumpy sexy comeback, when her sardonic eyebrows suddenly jump ship and dive into her hairline, and her mouth drops open.

“What,” Stiles asks, follows Dee’s gaze back to the laptop and nearly has a seizure. “ㅡthe fuck.”

“Told ya,” Scott says and Stiles can hear the satisfied grin in his voice as they both watch the girl on screen lick a long, wet stripe up the lenght of a halved grapefruit. 

“Jesus, fuck.” The dark pink fruit oozes, juice dripping where it’s being cradled by long, capable fingers, and then lapped up by a hot pink tongue. The girl hums, happily, and Stiles' mouth goes dry. She shakes herself but can’t seem to tear her eyes away from where the girl is enthusiastically tonguing _a fucking grapefruit_ to orgasm. There’s a close-up, and the girl presses her thumb into the deep pink flesh, then _suckles_ around it. The juice is positively dripping down her chin, and Stiles cannot believe that she is having an enormous realisation _watching fruit get head_ to the jaunty soundtrack of a pop song about healthy fruit salad.

Stiles clenches her thighs and is just about to sit on her hands to prevent them from pressing against where an insistent, but oh so totally inappropriate pulsing is happening in her too tight jeans, when the sound of a plate crashing onto the rug rips her out of her --granted, not entirely unpleasant-- paralysis. She’ll have to postpone that revelation for later.

Dee swears and dives under the table, while Scot laughs and says, “Alright, alright, you totally gotta watch this one though… Crap, where’s my charger?” He scrambles out of his chair and up the stairs to Stiles room to go hunting for his laptop charger.

Stiles ignores Scott’s woes in favour of ribbing Dee. It’s not like she is presented with such a valid opportunity every day, not that that ever stops her. 

“Aww, did all that lovey-dovey poetry soften your wolfy reflexes?” She coos as Dee redeposits plate and fruit on the table and frowns at the sonnets, which seem to have been unluckily implicated in the fall. “Well, that’s what you get for not eating your veggies. Even wolves need their vitamins if they want to keep a hold on their precious sonnets.”

Dee glances testily at her, but her gaze seems to lack some of the usual frostiness. She’s kind of shaky, actually, and Stiles gears up to poke fun at it when she is distracted by Dee swiping a gentle finger over a drop of juice on the leather cover and then absently sucking it from her thumb.

“Uh,” Stiles articulates intelligently. Her brain is too preoccupied with matching the two identical motions of a tongue coming out and _lapping_ at barely sticky skin, _jesus_ , to come up with anything more sensible. “Guh-gh.” Great.

Dee freezes in the middle of tugging the hem of her white t-shirt out of her jeans to clean the musty old book, and looks up at Stiles. Who is totally not having any problems tearing her eyes away from that sliver of pale skin, only to get stuck on the suddenly very plump looking lips, no she is not, thank you very much. All blood supply is entirely on schedule and not at all splurging on a southern holiday in France without informing the brain of its absence. Goddammit. Stiles swallows thickly.

“I mean, uh,” she tries again, but trails off as Dee suddenly sniffs the fucking air like a sneezing kitten and then goes stock still. Her eyes widen and Stiles… Stiles panics. Stupid wolves and their stupid sense of smell, stupidly picking up on what are totally accidental pheromones because Stiles is still a teenager and teenagers have a habit of spontaneously combusting like the icky fly traps they are…

“Stiles…”

“Right!” Stiles squeaks, cutting Dee off from whatever stupid, humilliating thing she was going to say. “I think we’ve definitely done enough research for one day, I mean, look at Scott, he’s barely holding it together anymore…”

Stiles flaps her arms and slowly retreats, keeping her eyes on Dee as she slowly edges towards the stairs. “Would be great if you could give him a ride and all, cause I really need the toilet, and then maybe a shower, and also I need to do laundry, so… I’ll see you whenever, BusyWolf.” She salutes, turns on her heel and manages not to stumble as she races up the stairs and leaves a frozen Dee standing in the middle of the living room.

She needs to, whatever that just was, she just needs it to not be anymore, she needs the sniffer dogs out of her house, even if they’re her best friend, and she needs a shower, like now. Stiles nearly barrels into Scott as he steps out of her room with his laptop charger and only barely manages the swerve, rushing into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.

“Uh, Stiles?” Scott sounds confused even through the door, and Stiles winces.

“It’s fine, all fine, I just really fancy a shower, like now, you know how it is. Dee will give you a lift. See you, good night!”

“Uhm, okay?” Stiles hears Scott hesitate, and god, she really doesn’t need another werewolf sniffing out her state right now. Her non-state. Because there is absolutely no state to speak of, but there’s also no way that Scotty McScott won’t draw absolutely harebrained conclusions from faulty evidence. Super faulty evidence, not at all reputably sourced from wolfy cause and effect. Stiles thumps her head against the door and slides down the wood.

“Just leave, Scott, okay? I promise I’m fine. I’ll text you tomorrow.” 

If Stiles manages not to die of juicy, hot shame until tomorrow, that is. Karma. This is totally karma for hiding the good old, reliable doritos where only wolfy noses could sense it, and then filling his Dad’s snack cupboard with bitter, fleshy fruit instead. 

Stiles groans. “And, for god’s sake, take the fucking grapefruits!”

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 will be titled "Macerate," just so you know.


End file.
